The Wisdom of Perversity

by Rafael Yglesias

  Noah apparently hadn’t remembered Sam. When she commented that Gary was very busy with the Rydel case, he mumbled, “There’s always some sex abuse shit going on. There are so many sick fucks out there. Speaking of sick fucks, I’ve got a contractor on the other line I’ve got to kill. Talk to you later.”

  She was relieved. No need to make up a story to discourage her brother from mentioning the coincidence to Gary. She loved Noah, especially admired his self-confidence, but there was no subtlety in him. When he wept over their mother’s early death (Noah was only thirteen), they were efficient tears that actually drained him of pain.

  She shouldn’t have worried, she decided afterward. Why would Noah remember Sam or Klein? He had been very young, five and six, when they had their encounters with those monsters.

  Being at work, as always, was soothing, a real pleasure handling Aronson’s sketches for Fiddler on the Roof. They were lovely variants on Chagall: pretty childlike colors, shtetl homes as cunning and quaint as dollhouses. She remembered the production vividly. She was nine and it was her first Broadway show and a pure joy. She had adored Tevye, wished her pompous and unaffectionate father were more like him. And she particularly admired Hodel, the noble daughter who followed her betrothed, the handsome revolutionary, into exile in Siberia. For two years, she tried to imitate the actress’s posture, as severe as a ballerina’s, her manner dignified. Julie too longed to love a brave man of convictions, to help him triumph over injustice. People would laugh now, but that’s how she saw Gary when they first met. He was a Legal Aid lawyer, denouncing rogue DAs, battling what he labeled a police state, under the guise of a war against drugs, instituting apartheid against inner-city black youth.

  For an hour, she removed sketches from old encapsulating polyester sleeves that were now thought to contain a trace of acid and transferred them into the absolute safety of Solandar boxes. At ten thirty, Julie pulled off her white cotton gloves, dashing outside for two more cigarettes that she gulped desperately while shivering on Sixty-fifth Street. She popped a Certs and stopped in the bathroom to wash off the cigarette smell from her hands. You have to quit, she told the guilty face in the mirror for the hundredth time that morning. Highlighted by Lincoln Center’s halogen spots in the restrooms, she poked at her short gray hair and wondered why she resisted dyeing it. When she used to be salt-and-pepper that was her favorite phase: mature but not decrepit. She was the only woman in her set who wasn’t coloring out the gray; Amelia scolded her about it at least once a month, but she still resisted. It seemed like a futile effort, a drop in the bucket of deterioration.

  Age was a reason to quit smoking. A single cigarette at fifty-three had to be more dangerous than hundreds consumed in her twenties. Perhaps that last one, inhaled with the Hudson’s cold wind, would activate a cancer cell in her breasts, too tired now to fight, no longer needed for nurture. The irony was that Gary had quit, really and truly quit, while she and Zack had taken it up. She must stop. How could she confront Zack about his smoking—she hadn’t; nor had she snitched on him to Gary—while she was weak? She felt guilty sitting on the closed toilet seat at home, guilty blowing smoke at the window, guilty as she hurried away from the sight line of her doorman while on a trumped-up errand for a “forgotten” supermarket item to sneak a cigarette between the corner deli and her apartment building. She felt guilty and also very glad to have such a respectable secret.

  “Gary called on the landline while you were in the bathroom,” Amelia said as a greeting when she returned. “Said your cell went straight to voice mail. Are you okay?” she asked. “You were in there for a while.”

  “I went out for some air.” Julie averted her head in case the dank smell lingered on her breath. “What did Gary want?”

  “Not to worry, he said, nothing’s wrong but he did want to talk to you ASAP. Want to call from my office?” Amelia offered her privacy. She was a doll. All of Julie’s friends, and the women she knew casually from Zack’s school, as well as the wives of Gary’s friends, all were free of her faults. They were openhearted with Julie. They gossiped freely and in glorious detail about their marriages and children, while she offered dry facts with none of her true feelings—except when she rejoiced in Zack. She certainly wasn’t going to be graphic about her disgust with Gary’s B-cup breasts and pleated folds of belly fat. And to confide any disappointment in Zack, such as discovering he smoked, hurt too keenly, as if the confession made his fault real. She couldn’t shake the superstitious belief that if she never spoke of it, then the pain would not exist, would never have existed.

  “Hi, Jules,” Gary answered. “Wait. I’m on the other line. Hang on,” he said and then added emphatically, “Don’t hang up!” The line went dead. Her throat was dry with anxiety. What is it? Could he have found out about her connection to Rydel and Klein? Not from her. She had never breathed a word about either of them. She intended to tell him what had happened when they were first dating but couldn’t figure out when was the right time. Certainly not before they made love. And then, since sex with Gary felt good, normal and comfortable, why add an aftertaste of illness to their love? Soon after, Gary stampeded her into marriage and she stopped thinking about what had been done to her in the excitement of making a home together. Not a willful amnesia. She did not forget. She archived it, like memories of other men and earlier romances, something you don’t unpack in front of your husband, especially when, after a blissfully contented year, shortly after their first anniversary, the shameful longings came back. And then Zack arrived. Tell him after Zack? What if Gary blew up? No. She had at last found a man with whom she could live a normal life and she wasn’t going to mess that up.

  And their lives were good. Except for Zack’s exposure to adult vices, things were better than ever. Gary was a success. He had even quit smoking. And she would soon be back on the straight and narrow herself. “Honey,” Gary’s voice returned in a hushed, solemn whisper. “Did you know your cousin Jeff was an original investor of the American Broadcasting Academy? He was on the board for five years.”

  She shut her eyes against panic. “The what?”

  Gary sighed, the long-suffering complaint of a man saddled with an inattentive wife. “I was talking about the Rydel case the other day. Remember? I mentioned he’s the president of this somewhat sleazy so-called school—actually it’s flat-out sleazy—that lures credulous working-class kids into student loans with promises of jobs in radio and TV? Your cousin Jeff was on the board for five years back in the eighties. You know why? Because it was founded by a relative of his, Richard Klein. I guess he’s also a relative by marriage to you. Did you ever meet him?” He waited for her to comment. She waited too. “Honey, you there?”

  She opened her eyes. She swallowed to get the spooked sound out of her voice. “I don’t know anything about what Jeff is doing. I haven’t talked to him since my father died.”

  “I know that!” Gary sighed, suppressing exasperation as best he could. “Look, there are rumors from the DA’s office that there are new accusations about to come out about this Richard Klein and I just found out Klein’s not only a blood cousin of Jeff’s, he was also important to him. Helped his career. At least when Jeff was starting out.”

  “I don’t . . . know . . . about that,” she stammered. She didn’t. If Klein had been a booster of Jeff that was news to her. “New accusations about what?”

  “That Klein also molested kids. Boys and girls. Back in the eighties and nineties. At Huck Finn Days and at the academy. They’re just rumors now, I can’t get a DA to confirm, and probably they’re all past the statute of limitation. And Klein’s old. He’s eighty-four, very ill, maybe not worth prosecuting.”

  “There’s a statue of limitation on . . .” Julie hesitated.

  “Statute of limitation,” Gary corrected her. “Yeah. Look, here’s what I know. First thing this morning I finished a draft of a column I really like and the point I make is that whatever the truth of these disgusting molestation charges, the
broadcasting academy is a rip-off. So before handing in the column, I do my due diligence, checking the board of the academy—and Jeff’s name pops up big-time. Earlier in my research, I had noticed he was a donor to Huck Finn, but that didn’t set off an alarm. Like all Hollywood big shots, Jeff gives to lots of charities and he wasn’t on the board or active in any way. But being an original investor in the broadcasting academy and sitting on its board for five years, that’s a real connection and an endorsement. I tried to reach you, couldn’t, and then I found out on the academy’s website that way back in 1983 Jeff gave the commencement speech there. That’s a really big endorsement. So then I found the text of Jeff’s speech on the website. In his speech, Jeff said the founder, his cousin Richard Klein, put him through college and got him his start in show business. So then I look up your cousin, and since his mother’s maiden name was Klein and she had a brother, I assume Richard Klein is Jeff’s mother’s brother’s son. He was Jeff’s first cousin. He’s really nothing to you. So . . . you never met Klein at some family thing? I mean, when your dad was still talking to his brother?”

  Julie’s brain was racing, but she couldn’t figure out what had to be said, what should be said, what she wanted to say. She said nothing.

  “Honey? Are you there?”

  “I’m here. Let’s talk about this when I get home. I’ll be there at three,” she said, a lie. She could be home by one, had planned to be, in fact. And Amelia would let her go immediately if she asked.

  “No, babe, I can’t wait. If this is a story I have to recuse myself from writing about, I need to know that now. I blogged a teaser about my column and I’m already in a blog shoot-out with some right-wing schmuck who—can you believe this?—blogged that child molestation has become epidemic because our society espouses homosexuality, as if being gay is the equivalent of raping children. Jesus!” Gary cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’ve got to know right away if this is something I can’t write about. Not ’cause of Klein—he’s not a relative—but because of your cousin Jeff.”

  “You can’t.” The words came out without her considering the ramifications.

  Those arrived immediately. “Why not? What do you know about his involvement?”

  “I don’t know anything about his involvement. I don’t know anything about him. You know that. We haven’t spoken at all since my father died and before that I hadn’t seen Jeff since I was a teenager. That’s two conversations in thirty years.”

  “So then I can write about it. Right? I mean, there’s no conflict of interest if he’s a virtual stranger. Remind me. What was the fight about? Something about your dad owing his dad money?”

  “No,” Julie said. “Other way around. His father owned a store and my father loaned him money and Saul didn’t pay it back in a timely fashion so the brothers stopped speaking, and so we stopped having Seder together.” Amelia was hovering outside the glass partition, pretending not to be looking through.

  “Well, that’s gonna sound loopy. Your father, Hy, who died almost broke after all those stupid real estate deals in Florida, claiming one of the richest men on earth owed him money?”

  “Not Jeff. Jeff didn’t owe him money. Jeff was a child at the time. It was his father.”

  “I know that, but that’s what it’s gonna sound like. Anyway, the point is, you don’t mind if I write about it, right?”

  “I do mind,” she snapped. “I just said you can’t. Aren’t you listening?”

  “Why?” he demanded, a willful toddler. “Why can’t I write about it?”

  She spoke without thinking it through: “I have to speak to Jeff. I never quarreled with Jeff. It’s not fair to him. He’s still my first cousin.”

  “Okay. So when will you speak to him?”

  “When? I don’t know . . . I don’t how long it’s going to take for me to get in touch with him. I don’t even have a number for him.”

  “I do,” Gary said, pouncing as if he had been waiting for her to step into this trap. “I have a number for his private personal assistant, not some receptionist at his company, so he’ll get your message quick. I’ll give you the number and wait for you to call him, but first, I just want to understand why you think you have to talk to him? If you don’t have a relationship with him and you don’t care about him—”

  “I do care.” Her mouth dried out. Her upper lip stuck to her teeth and she licked them so she could go on. “Someday . . . I don’t know. Maybe someday Jeff can be of help to Zack.” She grabbed for that blindly, but she was delighted by the discovery.

  “Help . . . Zack?”

  “What if Zack’s interest in acting keeps up? Who knows? Someone like Jeff, he’s so important, who knows in what way he might help Zack, right? For college, maybe a letter of recommendation? No matter what school Zack wants to go to, a letter from Jeff Mark will help, right? Who knows?” She sounded so unlike herself, eager to sell an idea. To Gary of all people. When had she ever convinced Gary of anything?

  Now. “You’re right. When you’re right, you’re right,” he said. “Okay. You should call him first. But listen. You gotta do it fast. You can’t procrastinate, like usual. You really can’t. These days this stuff goes around the world in minutes. Any second someone else could stumble on to Jeff’s being on the board, then I might have to comment if they Google him and see your family name and eventually bring it back around to me, so I need to know. Anyway, I can’t keep quiet about the case unless I shut down altogether and I’d have to do that today. Okay, sweetie? You’ll call him right now?”

  “Yes,” she hissed, furious now. “Bye.” Pushing her. Always pushing her. She hung up, took a step to the door, saw Amelia entering, and turned her back to hide her rage.

  “Everything okay?”

  She nodded. She had to think, figure this out.

  Amelia came around to peer at her face, saw distress. “You sure you’re okay?”

  Her cell buzzed against her thigh. She dug it out. Gary. When she answered, he scolded, “You didn’t ask for the number I have for Jeff. Pretty hard to call him without it. Do you know how to put your phone on speaker so you can copy it in?”

  “I’ll write it down.” She looked at Amelia, pointing at her memo pad. “Can I . . . ?” Amelia nodded. “Give me the number.” She wrote it down, folded the paper neatly, slid it into the back pocket of her jeans.

  “Do it right away like you promised, okay?” Gary said, talking to her as if she were five.

  She hung up without a good-bye. “Fuck,” she said. Her voice warbled, more pain than anger in the curse.

  Amelia’s jaw set. Her tone was harsh. “Is Gary being a shit again?”

  “No, no, it’s not that,” she said in a hurry to forestall Amelia from a misapprehension provoked by what always remained uppermost in Amelia’s mind about Gary and their marriage: his affair five years ago with a young assistant district attorney, his tearful pleas for forgiveness, and Julie’s quickly granted pardon. Amelia had not and would never forgive Gary for a betrayal of Julie that didn’t truly bother Julie—as long as Zack never found out. After all, she couldn’t blame Gary for wanting more than she could provide. “Gary’s just dumping his family’s nuttiness on me. I have to go home early. All right?”

  “You’re the best wife in the world. He’s lucky to have you,” Amelia said. She let her go with a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the shoulder. Didn’t even press for details. What a doll.

  An hour later, Julie was at home, smoking while she kept an eye on her cell, waiting for Jeff to return her call, as promised by his assistant. She hoped the message she had left would be provocative without being indiscreet: “It’s his cousin Julie calling about a family emergency.”

  During her vigil, she perched on her bedroom window’s ledge, neck and face chilled by a steady wind off the Hudson, legs and butt baked by the radiator while she took a drag and exhaled. Last puff, she thought in sadness. This is my last puff ever. She crushed the ember on the mortar between the bricks, using the filte
r to brush the remains away before she flicked it into the alley below. She watched to make sure it didn’t hit anyone.

  Now that her eyes weren’t on the phone, it rang. Caller ID read “Satisfaction,” the name of Jeff’s producing company. Her heart began to pound. “Hello . . . ?” Her voice was faint and high, a shy little girl.

  “Hello,” answered a brash woman’s voice that echoed slightly, as if the speaker were in a tiled room. “Julie Mark, please. I have Jeff Mark returning.” It had taken twenty-two minutes. That was quick. “Hello!” the woman standing in a shower demanded.

  “Uh, yes, this is Julie—this is her. This is she, I mean.”

  “Hold on for—”

  A clattering noise interrupted the secretary and Jeff’s voice came on, deeper than when he was a child, yet still nasal and congested by complaint. “Who died? Just tell me straight out. I can take it. I’m terrified. But I can take it. Who died?”

  “What?”

  “The message was family emergency and I haven’t heard from you since the last family funeral. Who died?”

  “Oh.” Julie attempted a chuckle but instead made the noise of a stalled car. “No one. Everyone’s fine.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Yeah. He’s fine—”

  “Your husband? Your kid? Your dog? Your goldfish?”

  At last he got a laugh from her. “They’re all fine, Jeff.”

  “And you? You’re fine?”

  “Well,” Julie reached for one more cigarette, to survive this conversation. “I’ve been better. I’m still kind of recovering from the shock of—”